Time

It is quarter past two.

So far today I have washed and dried my hair, got dressed and put a face on (doesn't happen often), got four children their breakfast, walked to school and back, been to Lidl and Sainsbury's (for the stuff I can't (or won't) get in Lidl), done some research into the advisability of the school parent council becoming a charity (anyone got any thoughts?), baked a cake with M, made some ice cream with M (he was very good at the clearing up the spoons bit), cleared up the kitchen, done the washing up, sat and read three stories on the potty (him not me), had lunch (B made that), made some Thai curry paste and checked that the rooms are ready for our friends who are coming to stay tonight.

And now M is in bed and I have so much spare time on my hands I'm blogging. 

That hasn't happened in months.

And I need to appreciate it.  Because you know what will happen.  Give it three weeks and I'll be whinging about how little time I have, and how I need to clean the skylight and fill in the plaster holes in the children's bedrooms and do the ironing.  All of which have needed doing for the last three years, but now, suddenly, will become pressing (no pun intended) instead of easily ignorable.

Because I have time.  I have three girls who are, so far, happily trotting off to school every morning, and grinning and hugging me when they come out. I have a boy who is not getting anywhere with potty training but is otherwise having a lovely time at home with just me and who still sleeps in the afternoons.  I have a new whole free day to myself on a Thursday (even if I did spend yesterday - the second such Thursday - working, which was precisely Not. The. Point.).  I have days to fill and stuff I want to do in them. 

I have an incomplete tax return too, but I'm ignoring that one.

I have time.

And I am going to appreciate it.

The End

Where did four and a half years go?

Not to mention 53 days (Or 1,272 hours.  Or 76,320 minutes)

Today was the end.

Or the beginning...

Mug logic

If you only ever use the mugs you don't like, you'll never smash the ones you really, really do. 

Holiday doublethink

Ah! The Summer holidays!

They start tomorrow.

I'll repeat that for those of you in England (or probably elsewhere) who may be reeling in disbelief.  Yup, the Summer holidays, in this particular corner of Scotland, start at 3.15 tomorrow afternoon and don't end until Tuesday 21 August.

And, despite the fact that the weather is being accommodatingly very Summer-holiday-ish (although not swimsuits-outside-worthy quite yet), I am reminded of Nineteen Eighty-four.

No, not because that was (although it was, I'm sure) a particularly fine Summer holiday (we probably went to Frinton), nor because Summer holidays are my personal room 101 (far from it), but because of doublethink.

I find myself, as I contemplate the next six weeks, simultaneously thinking both:

Oh, hooray! The Summer holidays!  Less than 24 hours to go! No  alarm, no routine, no uniform, no dragging tired children out of bed or forcing them to do homework in a snatched hurry between bites of breakfast.  Long lazy days of doing nothing and enjoying it.  Hooray for the Summer holidays!

and

Oh help! That makes it 53 days. Or 1,272 hours.  Or 76,320 minutes before I get five seconds of peace.

Can't wait.

Could this be the world's most patronising email?

A little while ago I read a post over at Muddling Along Mummy (whose lovely news is still making me smile).

Anyway, her post (about the contradictory, non-specific and generally unhelpful advice given to pregnant women) reminded me of a book I was given when pregnant with L.  Called something like How safe is my baby? (or possibly How safe is your baby?) it simply set out the actual statistics for the various risks and let you make your own mind up. 

I'll allow you a little gasp of astonishment at such a horrifyingly trusting idea.

I found it rather helpful, as books go, and when I'd finished with it, I posted it to a friend, who never received it.

Some years later, Hannah's post reminded me about it and I thought I'd get another copy to send to a pregnant friend.  Only I can't find it.  Nothing on Amazon, nothing on google, nothing on the second hand and out of print books sites I frequent.

After a bit of detective work, I identified two likely publishers and sent them both polite emails wondering if it ever had been on their lists, and apologising for the fact that I wasn't absolutely 100% certain of the title.

I got the following (names changed to protect the innocent) in reply:

     Dear Ms...

      I'm sorry to report that the title is not ours, so I can't help you.

     

      The best way to find it, is to get onto the Internet and go to

      www.amazon.co.uk. Once on the site find and Click on BOOKS.

      Once inside Books, type Your title into the Search Box and you

      should have a good chance of finding the title you can't actually

      remember.

      Good Luck

      Barry...

 

 

A nest of (uniformed) vipers

Remember Gulliver's Travels?

I don't, not really. Don't tell anyone but I haven't ever read the actual book, although I did have a highly excellent (probably ladybird) illustrated version. 

As I say, I don't remember much about it, but I do recall the Big-endians and the Little-endians. Two separate factions of Lilliputians (technically, I now learn from wikipedia, some were Blefuscans, but we'll gloss over that bit, as I suspect my source text did) caught in vicious internecine squabbles about which end of an egg is up.

Personally I'm a little-endian, but I can cope with the alternative, if I must.

Anyway, I digress.  The point is that this has nothing on what's going on at school at the moment.

We have a new(ish) head.  She has arrived with a lovely, equally new, broom, with which she intends to sweep clean any corners she's not so keen on. 

One of those corners is uniform.

As it happens, I think she's right.  Bearing in mind I went to a school that required me to have (and my parents to invest large sums of money in), in addition to my every day uniform, a full length cloak (with lined hood), as well as a blazer, a boater and a suit for Sundays, asking everyone to look reasonably neat in matching sweatshirts and polo shirts (secretly I'd rather they were wearing proper shirts but you can't have it all) doesn't seem to me too much.  And, if the truth be told, lots of the children, particularly the older ones (whose parents, I suspect, have wearied of that particular battle) were beginning to get rather scruffy.  I also happen (and I realise it makes me sound a bit Daily youknowwhat) to think uniform makes a difference.  We dress up for things that are important and we make an effort for people we respect, so I think asking children to dress smartly encourages them to think of school and what they do there as something that matters.

And most of the other parents agree.   There is universal approval for the idea that the children should be neatened up a bit.

There is no agreement on how.

The playground is full of secretive huddles of whispering parents you are frightened to approach for fear they'll ask you what you think.  Are you a Little-Endian or a Big-Endian?  Should jerseys be red or black?  Trousers be black or grey?   Have they realised that the local supermarket doesn't stock black?  (Though that particular problem seems rather chicken and egg (whichever way up) to me.)  Can girls wear trousers? Or cardigans?  What if it's cold?  And where do you stand on the irresolvable problem of gingham dresses?

Everyone has their preferred choice and everyone has a (invariably contradictory) story about some child hauled before the head for wearing it.

And no-one, but no-one (and yes, I include myself), is saying anything about the new literacy programme she's also introduced.

On effective delegation

It is supper time.  S and I are in the kitchen.

I say:  S, can you run upstairs and tell the others that supper's ready?.

S doesn't move, other than to turn slightly towards the door: 

 L!  A! Supper's ready!!!!

She's a helpful child, is S.